


Hollow Spaces

by ABTwrites



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amelie's history with Angela, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Human Experimentation, Pining, Torture, Unhealthy Dynamics, Widowmaker's history with Moira
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-09 06:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17997071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABTwrites/pseuds/ABTwrites
Summary: 'They had lunch together several times, without Angela. Amelie was trying to make Moira a friend, another person to please with her agreeable emptiness. O’Deorain enjoyed it. She enjoyed finding more thin layers of falseness, more things to hate. After a number of meetings, she began to enjoy peeling them off with surgical precision.'Amelie meets Moira, and all that follows.





	1. The Wife

**Author's Note:**

> These belong to a fic collection I do for my Patreon. You can join and support at https://patreon.com/artbytesslyn if you enjoy what you read; I also work on a Widow centric comic there, on it's third issue, called 'GHOST'. Anyway, please enjoy, comments and kudos much appreciated.

She had a very sweet smile.

The doctor extended her hand in offering, and the lithe woman before her took it with equal parts grace and strength.

Angela gestured between them.

“Amelie, this is Doctor Moira O’Deorain. Doctor, this is Amelie Lacroix.”

Moira’s lips slid into a cool smile and her mismatched eyes fixed on those of Amelie, dense with measured intent.

“The pleasure is mine, Doctor.” Her voice was thick with a Southeastern French accent and laced with friendliness.

Strong grip, but carefully measured. She was used to shaking hands with powerful people. Her body was lean with muscle, and yet she didn’t give off the energy of a soldier or fighter.

“Would you prefer to speak in French?” she replied politely, offering a lit of playfulness in her tone. “I could certainly make an allowance.”

“Oh.” The woman’s cheeks darkened a bit and she chuckled. “I am flattered, but I am making a point to speak English in company.”

“I see. Are you Gerard’s wife? I’ve heard much about you.”

Heard much. Listened to little. The man would ramble on and on, bothering her with inane tales of domestic romance. If she could shut him up properly, she would.

Not a soldier, but perhaps an athlete. She bowed her head forward in faux acknowledgement and let her eyes gather more information.

“I am. It is exciting to visit his work, I don’t often get the opportunity.”

Her ankles are wrapped. Angela’s hands shined with a bit of dampness, as if she had just washed them recently, and her notepad was in the opposite pocket as it usually was. So their meeting was something of an appointment.

Damaged ankles, athletic build.

A dancer.

“We are heading to lunch, Moira. Would you like to join us?”

Moira held her smile as her attention flicked to Zeigler. Lunch after an appointment?

“Are you visiting the city, Missus Lacroix?” she inquired, tone careful and soft.

“For business, at the moment,” she hummed. She was taller than Ziegler, legs long and defined. She had grip calluses on her palms and her posture was remarkably upright. “And to see Gerard, of course.”

Amelie’s hand was resting comfortably in the crook of Ziegler’s arm.

How interesting.

“I would love to join you, but unfortunately I have duties to return to. Perhaps another time.”

“Just an hour,” Amelie perked up. That smile again. Bright and warm. “I came all this way to drag Angela out by her, eh. You know.”

“Hair?” Moira suggested.

“Oh, no! Goodness. But yes.” She nodded to herself and patted Angela’s arm happily. “Breaks are good for the mind.”

“That is what you always say,” Angela sighed, though contented to follow.

“It is true! You say the same.” She tapped her foot against the tiles for emphasis, gesturing at her wrapped feet. “Do not be stubborn, _ange_.”

Angel.

“Even medical professionals have difficulty practicing what they preach,” Moira grinned more broadly, mind still busy taking apart the elements of her.

“Please, Moira,” pleaded Ziegler.  “Don’t encourage her. She’d never let me back into my office if she had it her way.” Angela looked defeated, and yet pleased to be so. She was happier to be getting dragged off than she wanted it to look.

“If you must return, I will not keep you. But I think a lunch with such intelligent colleagues would be fun for me.” Amelie’s brow bent, inquisitive and curious. Moira thought it was convincing enough that most people would have given in, eager to please such an approachable woman. She was very good at making strangers feel important.  

“We’ll see each other again,” Moira bowed her head, unfazed by the girl’s powerful attempt at swaying her. Amelie let out a little sigh. Even for Moira, it was hard to reason that she wasn't genuinely disappointed.

Moira decided to push the line, just once. A test.

“Don’t look so sad, Missus Lacroix. You’ll break my heart.”

Lacroix, for a moment, looked both amused and embarrassed at the suggestion. The doctor thought she would seem pleased, a bolt of ego at the thought of snatching a stranger up in her little game. But to be embarrassed? If she was a manipulator, it likely wasn’t to nefarious ends.

“Next time,” Moira assured her.

“Only if you’ll call me Amelie when we see each other again.” That brilliant smile returned, radiant.

Ziegler took a step passed her, Amelie’s hand still resting against her arm. As they crossed, the dancer’s other hand swept gently over Moira’s shoulder in a way that felt intimate, and her behavior became explainable in that instant.

Moira watched them until they crossed the threshold into the hallway, then began the trek back to her office, mind abuzz.

Gerard’s wife, the dancer. Damaged ankles. Strong legs. Lean frame. Warm smile. Friendly. Likeable. Young. Beautiful.

And horrifically lonely.

How advantageous.

 

\---------

 

Moira O’Deorain did not like Amelie Lacroix.

In all honesty, Moira O’Deorain had strong affinities with few. She was quick to annoy, but slow to express it, opting instead to wear her impressions between curling lips and white teeth, in the minor expressions others wouldn’t notice. A grin that was a bit too crooked, the slight narrowing of eyes, the insignificant motions of smoothing out her lab coat.

Whichever side of her affections people landed on, they would have to guess.

Most never knew.

After a number of brief meetings, Moira realized.

Amelie Lacroix did know. And she kept coming back anyway.

Mediocrity was an insult to the older woman in the most offensive of ways. Nothing disgusted her more than the lack of potential, or worse, the waste of it.

And Lacroix was indeed wasting her potential.

She’d seen her with Amari on the shooting range, firing bullets through bullet holes, landing perfect shots, and holding the rifle with the delicate hands of someone who could do more. She’d seen Ziegler’s small collection of her ankle X-rays, marred and worn away from a life of abuse.

Wasteful. She spent her life dancing onstage, and on the periphery of her own purpose. Moira saw her and imagined squeezing that purpose out with a titanium vice.

Gerard wanted her as far away from the battlefield as possible. Angela fixed her broken joints and encouraged her to remain purposeless. And Amelie, happy to please despite her own potential, fell into those pleasant demands.

But Moira knew. She could open her like a fertile cocoon, unsheathe her. She thought that with a careful cut, something new would reach out from inside, something magnificent and complete.

That was it. Amelie Lacroix was unfinished.

She’d say that her English wasn’t the best, but Moira had never heard her make a mistake.

She’d look at the target board with shock on her face, as if she didn’t know she could cluster six shots inside the ten ring.

She’d hold Angela’s arm with deliberate tightness, as if she never saw the pink on the doctor’s cheeks.

Amelie was happy to be a waste. Any reason would suffice. Anyone _else’s_ reason would suffice. Whatever it took to justify the throb of her ankles and the simplicity of being the wife of someone important.

She would never be more than that at her own volition. Happy to be the doctor’s friend, happy to be the soldier’s wife. Happy to exist treading water instead of swimming forward.  

Will was wasted on her.

They had lunch together several times, without Angela. Amelie was trying to make Moira a friend, another person to please with her agreeable emptiness. O’Deorain enjoyed it. She enjoyed finding more thin layers of falseness, more things to hate. After a number of meetings, she began to enjoy peeling them off with surgical precision.

She didn’t like her, but she liked the way her eyes would widen in thought when she suggested something deep and stitched within her.

“The Munich theatre is a bit small for your caliber, isn’t it?”

“Gerard never mentioned your prowess with firearms.”

“You missed the fifth shot on purpose, didn’t you.”

Planting suggestions. Careful cuts. Isn’t it tiring to pretend to be less?

Moira deflected every attempt the other woman made to redirect the conversation back on the doctor. She was used to being talked at. She liked the comfort of asking questions. Moira never let her get comfortable.

She’d shift in her seat, let her façade of a smile wilt. Reply with indecisive and noncommittal words. The silky veneer fell away and revealed more under it, more wastefulness, more potential.

She never looked like she enjoyed their talks. But week after week, she’d knock on her office door. Point out a new cafe or restaurant in the area. She didn’t have to come back. If she didn’t, maybe Moira could have let it go. She wouldn’t have remembered her beyond their first meeting if she hadn’t kept coming back.

She never got softer and Amelie was never placated. Moira found herself becoming fixated on her unwillingness to disengage. And then on her lean muscle, and the way she could catch a tipping glass before it hit the floor, and the grace in her stride. She could be magnificent.

And then she started to think that Amelie knew, too.

And maybe she knew that Moira could see it.

Is that why she kept coming back? She wanted someone to see that she was more?

That was a skewed version of the truth, a wholly unscientific conclusion to their dynamic. But Moira couldn’t expect her to be a scientist, she could forgive her for that lack of insight.

In the weeks before the dancer returned to France, Moira noticed small changes. She no longer wore the same skin she did with Angela when the two of them were alone. The smiling, laughing, pleasing illusion fell into scraps and a new woman was shaped beneath it. One of careful thoughtfulness, of unsoftened edges and unsatisfied goals. If the Amelie of their first meeting was a soldier of pacification, this one was a swirl of shameful unrest.

Shame. Moira’s razor sharp focus pierced a well of it, buried under miles of false complacency. She had been right. There was shame in her for being less, and the doctor’s interest soared.

She couldn’t fix Amelie. But she could turn her into something else.

Something perfect.


	2. Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moira notes her morning routine. Angela treats Amelie post-kidnapping.

The night was humid.

The row lights on the far end of the area had been replaced recently; they hummed and Doctor Moira O’Deorain found herself pacing beneath them, tapping her nails against the glass. She preferred the last set; they weren’t as fickle when overheated.

It was irritating, though unimportant.

The room was like a hospital center, or rather, it was like it was pretending to be a hospital center. The walls were white and crisp and windowless. The cabinets were organized precisely and the sink was clean, housing a pocket of small instruments with sharp blades and glittering steel.

The floors were recently swept. The doctor glanced down and grimaced at several long, dark hairs that marred the tiles like cracks. She swept them out of sight with her polished shoe.

The X-rays on their lighted perch revealed pretty pictures of healed injuries, a woman’s ankles repaired with meticulous effort after long years of abuse. Progress was slow, but fruitful. Patience was important in this line of work.

She leafed through the pages of notes on her desk, leaning a hip against the frame. The edges of the paper had crinkled; she smoothed them with a stern tug. Setting the folder down, she retrieved her cooling tea from its place, disappointed with her forgetfulness. She went to the sink to find a fresh cup.

A messy thud filled the space and rattled the instruments in the sink and the neatly organized cabinets and the cold tea in her hand. A tray of surgery tools clattered to the floor behind her, metal on metal scratching together with an annoying burst of noise. The gurney in the middle of the examination dock was suddenly empty.

Moira sighed, adjusting her collar. That would leave scuffs for sure. It was unfortunate that spills were so common, or she’d install a rug.

Her hand wrapped around the back of the prone woman’s head. Purple fog latched against the mass of long, dark hair. Gerard’s wife coughed and choked, thrashing like an animal. Throwing blood across the tiles. Moira leaned close to where the tray landed.

Yes, scratches. She groaned with irritation. Maybe she should put in a rug anyway.

The morning was rainy. The clouds dispersed by afternoon.

 

\-----------

 

Amelie has been sitting very still since she woke up.

Angela tugged at her collar and scribbled down a series of patterned vitals into her notebook, a memorized sequence of numbers that represented her friend in the most sterile way possible. They were normal vitals. Nominal, even. Amelie had been diagnosed with a heart murmur in her teens, a condition the two of them had talked about at length. Now, there was no trace of it in the days she had been recording her EKG readings. One could argue that she was in better physical health than before she was captured.

Her hand paused in its scribbling. She watched the grain of the paper.

The pen slid to the side, leaving a red slash in the middle of her page.

She studied the ink.

They had been expecting to get her back in pieces.

Angela shook her head, pinching her eyes shut. Her heart sunk and shuddered, angry wings beating at her ribcage. She kept writing the vitals.

They had expected her to come in boxes.

She had watched as Gerard’s energetic desperation melted into fearful dread.

His insistence of her survival was genuine in the first few weeks. Talon would not take her for nothing. She was a hostage, they wanted something, they wanted him. They would call, offer a trade off, something. Then, they could figure out what to do to get her back. They must have had demands. It didn’t make sense if they didn’t have demands.

They waited to be contacted by Talon. They waited for the negotiations to begin.

But the call never came.

Weeks. Months.

The certainty that Amelie’s disappearance had been a kidnapping withered into a husk of an explanation, and from it something far more sinister emerged.

Not a kidnapping.

A murder.

The first whisper of the possibility passed between the counsel when Gerard wasn’t present. Angela was horrified by it. Of course it had crossed her mind, but only in a guilty and fleeting way. Of course Amelie was out there, of course they could still find her.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Now, Amelie sat very still.

She stared forward, unblinking, and waited to be addressed. When she was alone, she would be like a mannequin someone left posed in her bed for hours.

Angela always had a hard time getting Amelie to sit still. She’d tap her fingers, rock her leg, get up and pace and laugh and apologize for being so terrible at just, being still. Dancer’s blood, she’d say. She just couldn’t do it.

The doctor could feel the tempting webs of paranoia growing on her mind. A fixed heart murmur. The stillness. Little things, pointless things, explainable things, that she wanted to add up into one big something.

No one wanted to ask why.

Talon took her, then gave her back. No communication. It reminded her of a suitcase handoff. No money, but no one checked, and now there was a bomb in the building.

Amelie smiled, eyes glazed and empty. She tugged on Angela’s lab coat and leaned her forehead against her chest.

“I’m cold,” she said, voice ragged from lack of use.

“I’m sorry,” Angela replied, holding her carefully. “I’ll get you a heavier blanket.”

“It’s freezing,” she continued. “Inside. In my bones. It hurts.”

 Angela was taken aback.

“I’m sorry, Amelie.”


End file.
